


sleep on the floor

by AmaranthBlue



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study, Could be read as either romantic or platonic - Freeform, Deadlock Gang, Deadlock Jesse McCree, F/M, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Nonbinary Character, Teenagers Try To Perform First Aid, Trans Jesse McCree
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-18 17:13:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21581134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmaranthBlue/pseuds/AmaranthBlue
Summary: Jesse has never been shot before. Today is the first, and he hopes it’s the last, but he knows that he’d never be that lucky. Still, he’s only been trying this whole outlaw thing for less than a year, and he’s taken a shine to it, and it would be a damn pity for him to bleed out in the back of a dirty old pickup truck with Ashe’s hands trying in vain to staunch the flow of blood.“It ain’t that bad,” Ashe says, lying through her teeth.Jesse gets shot. Ashe deals with it. No one ever said being an outlaw was easy.Just a short piece for me to sound out my thoughts on Deadlock.
Relationships: Elizabeth Caledonia Ashe & Jesse McCree, Elizabeth Caledonia Ashe/Jesse McCree
Comments: 9
Kudos: 38





	sleep on the floor

Jesse has never been shot before. Today is the first, and he hopes it’s the last, but he knows that he’d never be that lucky. Still, he’s only been trying this whole outlaw thing for less than a year, and he’s taken a shine to it, and it would be a damn pity for him to bleed out in the back of a dirty old pickup truck with Ashe’s hands trying in vain to staunch the flow of blood. 

“It ain’t that bad,” Ashe says, lying through her teeth. Her shirt is stained red, as are her hands, and there’s a smear of crimson along her forehead from when she wiped her brow. 

Despite himself, Jesse laughs, his grip on her forearm tightening as the pain shudders through him. It didn’t feel like much more than a bee sting at first, a little pain in his stomach as he vaulted into the back of the truck and yelled for Marcela in the driver’s seat to get them the hell out of there, a little sense of warm slickness filling his shirt as he gave Ashe a hand to help her up and into the truck. 

It was their first time dealing with these boys. A little gang out of Arizona that didn't have the luxury of a fancy name to borrow like Deadlock—they’d tried to meet up with them, negotiate some kind of alliance rather than keep running into each other when trying to hit a train, but the meeting went sour. More than sour. It went to hell, and they’d let themselves get caught off guard, and they’d made it out, but not without Jesse catching a bullet. 

“Eyes open, Jesse,” she says firmly, when he lets himself drift. 

He’s only had that name for a year, too, picked it and couldn’t decide if he really liked it, and he would really like to keep on using it, supposing he doesn’t die. That can’t be all he gets. Fifteen years of going by the wrong name and only one where he gets to be _Jesse McCree, Deadlock Rebel_. 

The road they’re on is shit, hasn’t been maintained in years and is riddled with potholes, cracks in the road, and every time it jostles them back and forth it sends a new shock of pain through him, making him gasp and bite his tongue. 

Ashe isn’t bothering with the sweet words, the _you’re gonna be okay_ or _it’s all gonna be fine,_ she’s keeping her voice firm, controlled, and that’s honestly more comforting. She’s confident. She knows what she’s doing—she always does—and he has a hope that he’ll make it through this. 

Through the cracked back window, she orders Marcela to pull over, wherever they are, and the truck screeches to a stop. He’s achingly aware of being lifted from the back of the truck, of hands beneath him and on him, but he forces his focus to Ashe’s hand, holding his own tightly, blood making their grip feel nearly slimy. 

“Where we goin’?” His voice feels small, much smaller than he likes, words just barely getting past his lips, and he clears his throat, tries again. “Where we goin’, Ashe?”

He forces his eyes open, doesn’t let them close, and looks up at her as she squints at something above their heads. “Garcia’s Garage.” 

The sign isn’t glowing neon, but it probably was meant to, and the second big G is hanging off it upside down. The place is abandoned, nearly every business is out on these roads. He’s in real good hands, clearly. 

There’s the deafening rumble and clinking chain of someone forcing open a heavy garage door, and then Jesse’s being set down on something cold. It digs into his back, leeching through his skin, spreading to the rest of him, and jolts him awake just enough that he can look around the dark room. Someone finds a flashlight and points that in his face, and he swears under his breath at them. 

There’s a cacophony of different voices, of everyone panicking—

_We gotta dig the bullet out—_

_How the hell do we—_

_Need disinfectant. Bandages._

_There’s a roadside kit in the truck—_

_What if we can’t—_

_Who’s gonna—_

_I can do it. I got steady hands._

The last one is Ashe, of course, and her words linger in the air, silencing everyone else, and her eyes meet Jesse’s and there’s an understanding there. That she fucked up, she got him shot, and she will be the one to fix it. 

The next few minutes go by in a blur, as Jesse is sure he’s growing colder and Ashe is pressing down hard on the wound in his gut as blood slips through her fingers like sand. Time is running out, he thinks. If he dies here, in Garcia’s Garage, he’s going to be so _pissed._

Marcela drops a heavy box next to his head and he flinches, and there’s a hasty apology, but they’re cracking it open as fast as they can and there’s two more flashlights, set on the ground to illuminate the space. 

“Get that whiskey,” Ashe says, not a question but a demand, and Barns sprints off for the whiskey they’d kept in the backseat for a gift for those backstabbing fuckers. Expensive shit, that they’d bought with _real_ money, hadn’t stolen this one. 

Jesse knows what’s coming. There’s only one reason they need it. 

“Drink up, Jesse.” Ashe brings her hand to cup his cheek so it doesn’t surprise him when the bottle is pressed to his lips. He reaches up to take it, swallows down gulps of whiskey that leave him coughing and spluttering, throat burning. He’s still not quite used to the awful taste of alcohol, but he only ever drinks to get drunk. Her thumb traces over his cheekbone, back and forth, a steadying motion. “You know what’s next. It’s gonna hurt.”

Jesse nods once, and that’s all it takes for them to pour that nice, expensive whiskey over his stomach, sending fire tearing through him and he bites back the yell that nearly rips out of him, trapping it in his throat like a bird beating its wings against the bars of its cage and desperately trying to free itself. 

He maybe blacks out. Just for a few moments. 

He comes to and Ashe has a pair of pliers and someone’s raspy voice is sobbing _no no no no no no_ and it takes a minute for him to realize that’s his own voice, that tears are streaming down his face, that he is well and truly breaking down in front of the three of them. 

“Get him somethin’ to bite down on.” 

A belt comes undone from someone’s jeans and he flinches at the sound, at the memory, but there’s a hand on his cheek again and he lets his mouth open, tastes leather on his tongue and grips it between his teeth. Someone’s pushing a hand through his hair over and over. Barns, he thinks. Marcela’s holding the flashlight and sitting on his legs so he doesn’t thrash around and make the wound worse. 

Get it done, he wants to plead, just get it done and over with, or let him pass out so he doesn’t have to feel any of it. 

No such luck. 

The pliers dig into the hole in his gut and he barely keeps the screams down, hissing through his teeth at the waves of pain rolling through him. Barns is holding one of his hands tight, keeping him from interfering, Jesse’s other hand clenched into a fist. His nails dig into his palm, and he does his best to focus on that pain. To zero in on it. 

“Almost there,” Barns whispers. “Ashe, how we doin’?”

Her face is all scrunched up in concentration, and it takes a moment for her to reply. “Think I got it. Hang in there.”

As if he’s got any other choice. 

The bullet comes out with a good deal of squirming and drops onto the floor with a little _plink_ and Jesse’s chest heaves, unable to let go of Barns’s hand in his, holding them so tight it must hurt. 

“Once more for luck,” Ashe says, shortly before the whiskey splashes over him again and he pounds his fist against the floor, he refuses to cry any more in front of them, he won’t let them see—

“Hard part’s over,” Barns murmurs, their thumb pressing into the back of his hand. They sound scared, too, but it’s just a quake in their voice, nothing near the world-ending terror that’s consuming Jesse. “Just got to wrap you up.” Their other hand drags through his hair, pushing it out of his face where sweat has plastered it to his forehead. 

He squeezes his eyes shut as they get to it, lifting his body up enough to wind layer after layer of bandages over the wound. He could swear it takes forever, hours and hours of wrapping him up, hours and hours where he lays on this frozen floor and waits for them to declare that he’s all done, that he’s safe, that they can go back home now. 

Ashe’s hand rests on his cheek, and he opens his eyes and there she is, meeting his gaze with thinly veiled worry. “All good?”

He swallows the lump in his throat and nods, lifts his hand to cover hers against his cheek. “All good,” He echoes. 

They bring the truck into the garage, decide to lie low for tonight, make the drive back to the Gorge in the early morning. There’s dusty old blankets they’ve got, and he and Ashe get themselves situated in the bed of the pick up truck one more time, just in case he starts bleeding out in the middle of the night. It’s not comfortable, but nothing is. Not in this world they’ve etched out for themselves. 

“Shoulda listened to me,” Jesse mumbles. They’re staring up at the ceiling, and Barns has already fallen asleep—their soft snores are the only sound, aside from rustling fabric. They’re scrunched up in the back seat, while Marcela’s taken over the passenger side and is stretched back as far as she can go. 

“I know.” Ashe’s hand finds his in the darkness, her thumb ghosting over his bruised knuckles.

“Told you they were gonna pull some shit. They think we’re just kids, y’know—“ He shifts, inhales sharply, and his free hand goes to his wound, as if that’ll make it any better. “Young and dumb and easy to trick.”

And trick them they did. Christ. 

Ashe’s fingers slide down to interlace with his. She thinks through her reply, and he can hear the gears turning in her head. They’re delicate things, complex things, like that of clockwork, always quietly ticking along. “We ain’t got anythin’ to lose if they underestimate us. Just means payback’s gonna be a _real_ fun surprise.” 

Jesse rolls his eyes, bumps his shoulder against hers. “Never took you for an optimist.”

“It’s a _tactical advantage,_ ain’t nothin’ optimistic about that.” 

“Oh, it’s a _tactical advantage_ , me gettin’ shot?” He’s not angry in the slightest; he’s almost laughing, though the wound protests. He’s sure that won’t change anytime soon.

Ashe grins sideways at him, still staring up at the ceiling, squeezing his hand tightly. Like she’s reminding herself that he’s here to stay. No more danger for tonight. “Well, now we know how to take care of it when somethin’ else nasty happens. If we’re gonna run around shootin’ people, may as well figure out how to deal with one of us gettin’ pumped full of lead.” 

She says it like it’s a joke, and Jesse quietly laughs, but it’s a frightening reality. They’re on their own. They always have been, really, but it feels so much more _real_ now—can’t go to the hospital, can’t call the cops, can't trust anyone outside the Gorge. Just them against the world. 

“ _I got steady hands_ ,” Jesse says abruptly, mimicking her grim tone from earlier. “Oh, please, won’t you let me go and rearrange Jesse’s guts? Promise I’ll be quick, certainly won’t take my _sweet ass time_ digging around for a little itty bitty piece of metal.” 

Ashe elbows him, though she can’t hide her poorly stifled laugh. “Oh, what _ever._ I saved your scrawny ass with my _very_ steady hands.” 

Jesse squeezes her hand tightly. “Yeah,” he says, suddenly quiet. They all were panicking tonight, but Ashe really did save his ass. Ordering everyone around and getting things handled and deciding just what they needed to do, and quickly. “Yeah, you did.”

She’s always been better at that kind of thing than him. He’s got good instinct, and maybe if it wasn’t him who was shot, they’d be able to prove that, but Ashe is always level-headed. She doesn’t panic. Even when the rest of them do. And she’s able to quell their panic, delegate, get everyone on the same page. It’s a responsibility that Jesse’s fucking delighted that he doesn’t have to shoulder, when Ashe is so good at it. 

“You know I wouldn’t let anythin’ happen to you,” Ashe says, her own voice quiet. Marcela might not be asleep yet, and she could certainly hear the two of them being stupid saps if she were awake. “We’re in this shit, ain’t no gettin’ out, but I ain’t lettin’ anyone lay a fuckin’ finger on you and get away with it. Not you, not Marcela, not Barns. When we find those assholes again, we’re gonna make ‘em wish they killed us.” 

When Ashe says it, it sounds more possessive than protective. But he doesn’t mind it. He’s never been something to be defended, something precious, and he’d bet that the same goes for the other two. Four unloved kids sleeping in Garcia’s Garage. 

Not so unloved anymore. They got each other. 

“Appreciate that,” he mumbles. “You’re real overdramatic, you know that?”

“Oh, hush. You love it.” She shoots a grin at him, squeezes his hand. 

He likes being able to comfort each other like this. That it doesn’t have to be romantic, that they can just be close and enjoy it. He’s never had anyone like that before, and he knows Ashe hasn’t. 

“I’m here for you, too.” It sounds a little weaker like that, like he’s only saying it because Ashe said it first. But he means it, and she knows he means it. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

What _I_ would do, he said. Not what _we_ would do. 

He likes Barns and Marcela plenty, and they like him—which is a novel experience, honestly—but they don’t quite get him the way that Ashe gets him, the way that he gets Ashe. Barns lost their parents, but they loved them. Marcela and her mom, from what little she’s shared, used to be real close, until.. well, until life happened. 

He and Ashe, though. He never knew his parents, got shuffled from house to house without any regard for what he wanted. Ashe’s parents put on the show, made all the mandatory gestures of goodwill, but beyond that, they never even really speak to her. 

Or, spoke to her. They don’t exactly have the opportunity anymore. 

Ashe squeezes his hand so tight it hurts, and he squeezes hers right back. The space between their bodies, no more than three inches, feels bigger than ever. 

Neither of them cross it. 

They lapse into a comfortable silence after that, fingers intertwined, and at some point, Jesse must drift to sleep. It’s easy, with these three. With Ashe, most of all, but he’s far too afraid to ever admit that to himself, and it's just fine how it is. But he can’t remember the last time sleeping next to someone made him feel so at peace. 

**Author's Note:**

> you don't actually need to remove bullets from wounds and you'll probably do a whole lot more damage if you try, but i don't think any of these kids know that. rip jesse
> 
> come talk to me on my [tumblr!](https://mercurialmoon.tumblr.com)
> 
> title from [sleep on the floor by the lumineers](https://youtu.be/o-mj-2SVMG4)


End file.
